“I’m used to it.”
“Maybe we can set you up with some introductions.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What’s that book you’ve got? None of my boys can figure out what it is.”
Brano showed him the cover of Strategie Ouvri ere et Neocapitalisme.
“Trying to start world revolution in France, Brano?”
“We have to start somewhere.”
“Did you bring your passport?”
Brano took it out of his jacket and handed it over.
From his briefcase, Ludwig took out a slip of paper, a stamp, an inkpad, and a stick of glue. He found a clean page in the passport, rubbed glue on it, and pressed the slip into the page with the side of his fist. Then he used the inkpad and stamp to place the blue seal of an eagle with ruptured shackles on the page. He waved the open passport like a fan. “Any friends show up?”
“Friends?”
“Old friends. They’re bound to find you soon.”
“No, no old friends.” Brano took back the passport. “Have you received inquiries about me?”
“Your people seem to have counted you among their many losses. They’re silent.”
“What about my other old friends?”
“Which ones?”
“The Sorokas.”
Ludwig peered out the window. “I suppose it’s no secret. Their kid got a nasty cold after swimming that marsh. It’s to be expected. He’s in a London hospital now, while they wait for American visas.”
“Feel insulted?”
“That they didn’t stay in Austria? No, we don’t have the mystique of the New World.” He looked up as the waiter set down a whiskey and a melange, then raised his glass. “To the people who do, surprisingly, prefer it here.” He knocked back the shot. “You might hear from one of them.”
“Yes?”
“Fraulein Frankovic.”
To avoid betraying his feelings, Brano took a quick swallow that burned his tongue. “She knows I’m in town?”
“We choose our secrets very carefully. Your presence in Vienna is not one. Anything you want to know?”
“About what?”
“About her.”
Brano shook his head and settled back into his chair. He wanted to know everything, but not from this man; instead he gazed out at the street, where his chubby, sunburned shadow was blowing his nose. “He’s not up to your regular standards, is he?”
“You get who you can these days.”
“How is Karl?”
When Ludwig slapped the table, his empty glass rattled. “I knew you liked that guy! Karl worried you hated him because of that battery trick, but I told him-I said, Karl, you’re just too damn likable!”
“Sure,” said Brano. “He’s a fine man.”
“Know why we’re here, in the Cafe Mozart?”
“Because this is where you’ve installed the microphones.”
Ludwig shook his head. “We can install microphones anywhere we like, Brano. No, it was for you. A little fun. Ever see the film The Third Man’.”
“I’ve never been much for moving pictures.”
“Oh, you should be. One of these days they’ll get rid of books, mark my words. But this particular film is a little about what we do.”
“It’s about imprisoning people in apartments?”
“Not that literal, Brano. Come on. It’s from just after the war, a kind of spy movie. Takes place in Vienna. And while Graham Greene was writing the script, he lived in the Hotel Sacher and came here each day to take notes. How do you like that?”
“Graham Greene,” said Brano. “I believe he’s a good friend of Kim Philby. Maybe I should see his film.”
Ludwig crossed his arms. “Unfortunately, the place I’d rather take you has been closed since the war. The Cafe Central. I think you’d prefer it there. Your proletarian hero Comrade Trotsky used to play chess on those tables.”
Brano tapped the table with his fingertip. “He’s no hero of mine. Trotsky was a class traitor who deserved what he got in Mexico.”
Brano was pleased to see that the Austrian didn’t know whether he should take the comment seriously. “You know,” Ludwig said finally, “something’s bugging me.”
“What’s that?”
“Our old dead body, Bertrand Richter.”
“I told you what I knew.”
“Of course you did. But we picked up the guy you said killed him. What was his name?”
“Erich Tobler on Hauptstra?e.”
“Right, right. Well, the thing is, he’s never heard of Bertrand Richter.”
“And you believe him.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Brano. I’m of half a mind that you’re the one who killed poor Bertrand. But Erich and I have more talks scheduled. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I’m sure you will, Ludwig. You know what you’re doing.”
The smile returned, broad and toothy. “You’re quite a charmer today, Brano. It’s nice to see that side. Go on. Enjoy the day.”
“I’m curious about something.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Easter Sunday, and you’re here with me. Don’t you have a family to spend the day with?”
Ludwig’s smile faded. “I don’t think we’re here to discuss my personal life.”
Brano nodded at his empty coffee cup. “Will the Second Republic take care of this?”
“Business expenses.”
“I guess that’s one advantage.”
Ludwig squinted as Brano stood and picked up his book. Then he nodded as he got the joke.
Brano walked back home slowly, watching churches along the way spill the faithful into the empty streets. The sunburned shadow remained a half block away, leisurely wandering, and at Web-Gasse 25 Brano noticed a second shadow sitting in a new Volkswagen across the street. An old man with a thick, white mustache and beard, to compensate for his decaying hair. The old man looked vaguely familiar-perhaps a face from West Berlin. He watched Brano unlock his door and go inside but made no move.
Ludwig’s shadows were more conspicuous by the minute.
Through the holes in his mailbox door he spotted a letter. He retrieved the unstamped envelope as an old woman nodded a Gru? Gott at him on her way out, and in the elevator opened it. Inside was a yellow English- language pamphlet published by the “Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations,” titled A Communist War? Below the title was the image of a hammer striking a sickle.
He opened his door, then went inside and locked it. He took the pamphlet to the living room and tilted it in the sunlight, looking for invisible indentations that weren’t there. He sat on the sofa, smiling as he read, for it was clear then that Ludwig, or his bearded associate, did have a sense of humor after all.
A COMMUNIST WAR?
Dear Friend,
There is much talk these days of an impending war between Red China and the Soviet Union. Optimism, to be sure. Such an argument encourages the feeling among Leftist professors that detente with the Soviet Union is the
